


Is It Serious, You Two?

by bubblesbythebeach



Series: Unobservable Phenomena [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, 30 Day OTP Challenge, Angst, Canon Compliant, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 11,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesbythebeach/pseuds/bubblesbythebeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 Day OTP Challenge plus some interludes, 221b drabbles accounting for every month between the day Sherlock disappeared and the day Moriarty reappeared.</p><p>Most of the time, Molly was having sex with Tom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 2012 -- holding hands

Molly locked the door and leaned against it. Sherlock was scrubbing his hands in a stainless steel sink in the corner. Water dripped off the end of his nose, ran down his brow and jaw.

“I don’t like owing favours, Molly.”

Her hands, splayed flat on the door behind, whitened.

Sherlock straightened and dried off with a paper towel. He walked towards her, the same way he had only scant hours ago in another dark hospital room. “I’m going to ask one more of you.”

Molly pursed her lips. “Yes?

“Be safe,” he told her.

Molly exhaled loudly and straightened up. She took Sherlock’s right hand, still loosely holding the damp paper, and closed both of hers around his fist. He didn’t look as if he knew what to do, how and when to draw out of Molly’s suddenly desperate grip.

She brought their joined hands up to her face, stopped just short of her mouth. Distantly she thought she might close the gap and kiss his knuckles, but she never swayed close enough.

“Okay. Okay.” Molly’s hands clenched once more. “Are _you_ going to... be safe? Alone, I mean.”

Finally, Sherlock lifted his other hand to cover hers. This palm was dry, patting warmth onto her fingers and his own clammy skin. His lips twitched. “I’m sure I will be.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 2012 -- cuddling

Toby was sleeping on the arm of the sofa when she came home. Molly padded quietly past him and stripped off her clothes in the bathroom. Stockings thrown in the bathtub to be hand-washed, strands of her hair falling to the tiles as she tugged her ponytail loose. Molly glanced at her face in the mirror – she still looked as tired as she felt.

A clean set of pyjamas made a world of difference, though. She made a cup of tea and brought it to the sofa, the noise as she sat down surprising Toby awake.

“Oh, sorry, Toby.” He turned his head towards her and yawned hugely. Molly tried stroking his back to settle him. “Okay?”

Toby slowly narrowed his green eyes at her.

“Come give me a cuddle, Toby?” Molly held her tea high with one hand and patted her lap with the other.

Toby took the invitation and kneaded her legs thoroughly before curling his warm body over it. Molly rubbed one of his ears with her thumb. “I was at a memorial service today, Toby. No body to bury because he—the fellow wanted it donated to science.” Molly sipped her tea while Toby arched his back, relaxed again. “So I told John and Greg that’s what _really_ happened and that’s why the memorial’s sort of... belated.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August 2012 -- watching a movie

“How the hell is Andrew Garfield so skinny?”

Molly tore off the first corner of her croissant and popped it into her mouth, smiling as Tracy kept gesturing into the air. Oh wow, this was good. “Want a piece?”

Tracy broke her stride to push two fingers into the paper bag Molly was holding out. She chewed, sipped her banana smoothie, resumed her shoe-pounding strut down the street. “I swear, he’s what? Half the breadth of Toby McGuire?”

“Emma Stone’s face is about half the width of Kirsten Dunst’s as well, isn’t it?”

Tracy barked out a laugh. “Yikes, Molls.” She smirked. “You only agreed to come for Rhys Ifans, though, eh?”

Molly squirmed her fingers down to grab another chunk of pastry. “Noooo. It was a good movie.”

Tracy hummed. “Oh hey, want to cut through the park? It’s still warm.”

By the time they’d walked by the first park bench Molly had finished her croissant and Tracy’s straw was making hollow sucking noises. They threw their rubbish in the bin next to the bench and dropped down, kicking their shoes out in front of them.

“Spiderman was funny, wasn’t it?” Tracy said lightly, looking across the path at the trees.

“Yeah, wasn’t bad,” Molly replied.

“You’re good, then?”

“What?”

Tracy shrugged. “I was hoping it’d make you feel better.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 2012 -- on a date
> 
> I saw the first photos of Tom before the episode aired and oh I was so hoping for him to be well-spoken and charming but it was not to be.

“So, Tom, what do you do for a living?”

“Ah, I work in theatre. Sort of. I play; I can’t act for shite—” Floundering, Tom took a deep breath. “I mean I play viola in an orchestra in the West End,” he said more confidently. “I’ve got a contract with the Les Mis folks for most of next year, actually.”

“Oh wow, that sounds fantastic. Viola’s different to a violin, right?”

“Yeah. Not as romantic as the violin players and not as noticeable as the cello player – that’s me. Do you like musicals?”

“Oh, definitely. Mum showed me a lot of Julie Andrews movies when I was little, and then occasional school excursions to Phantom of the Opera or Les Mis... I love—I mean I like music, yes.”

Tom ducked his head shyly. “It is possibly the third most boring job I’ve had,” he grimaced. “Eight shows a week, three hours sitting waiting for your cues. But it’s not the _most_ boring ever, so I’m content for now. Sorry, I sound like _such_ a grinch. Tell me about yourself, Molly.”

“I don’t know if you’d call it boring, but I work with St Bart’s mortuary. You know, bodies. People bodies. So it’s quiet and peaceful, I guess, hehe. Um. Last Thursday we got to look at a pretty interesting brain.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 2012 -- kissing

There was something to be said about a Friday night dinner at an Italian restaurant. It was classic. Predictable. You walked out with a comfortably full belly, carbs craving satisfied, wine reddening your cheeks and hopefully not too many sauce splatters on your trousers.

There was something to be said about having the whole weekend stretch in front of you, waiting for you at home. The softness of your sofa and the dark of your bed, kitchen full of your favourite tea.

There was something to be said about dating a man who’s so _tall_. And they are, now. Dating. The Italian restaurant had been a bit more formal than their previous dinners before Tom dashed off to his performances, or Sunday brunch at the café near Molly’s place.

But wait, yes, tall. And slim. And a bit ridiculous when you saw him standing in doorways, curls nearly brushing the lintel.

There was something to be said about standing on a corner on a Friday night, waiting to cross the street, hands in your coat pockets and bumping elbows with your date. The world going quiet and your date bending his lanky body down to kiss your mouth. Softly, quickly, and straightening up again with a funny smile on his face.

And that is to say, it can be rather brilliant.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 2012 -- wearing each other's clothes

Molly jumped when Tom stopped in his tracks and sneezed. His whole body shuddered comically with it, shoulders rocking forward and one knee kicking up.

Molly felt a giggly smile push at her lips. "You alright there?" she asked, patting Tom on the back.

Tom blinked and rubbed his hand sheepishly over his mouth. "Bugger, I hope I'm not catching something," he moaned. "I can't tell if my throat feels funny or not..."

Molly's eyes were drawn to his long fingers trailing down his neck. "Your jacket's unbuttoned and you haven't even got a scarf, Tom." She started pulling at the loop of her own pink and black striped scarf. "It's a little thin but this'll do for a bit." She threw one end of her untied scarf over Tom's shoulder.

Tom held up both hands and stepped back. "Hey, no, if I am sick you don't want my germs all over it. I'll be fine, I'll take a few vitamin C tablets when I get home. I've got my own scarf at home – promise to wear it tomorrow." He picked the pink scarf off his shoulder and held it out. "Come on, Molly..." he wheedled.

Molly was already walking away, smirking over her shoulder. "Hurry up, if you want to come to my place it's two minutes until the bus."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 2012 -- cosplaying
> 
> Tom is a happy 5 year old and Molly thinks she probably really likes this boy.

On the evening of Christmas Molly opened her door and stared.

Tom gave her a lopsided smile and shrugged. He waited, and when Molly didn’t say anything he pointed over his shoulder. “Um, should I _go_ , then...?”

Molly unfroze. “Sorry, come in. Just. Yeah. I didn’t know you were dressing up for the occasion!” She walked back into the flat, sheepishly tucking her hair behind her ears and glancing back at him. “I’ve got the chicken and veg in the oven, give me a few minutes.”

Tom took a sonic screwdriver out of his jacket pocket and laid it on the kitchen counter. Molly stared at it. Tom stared at it. They both leaned on their elbows on opposite sides of the counter, before looking up and erupting into self-deprecating giggles.

Molly reached over to wiggle his red bowtie. “You are full of surprises, mister,” she said.

“Yeah, if twenty-nine year old guys who own _tweed jackets_ are your kind of thing...”

Molly hummed. “Mm, they might be.” She shook the dazed look off her face. “Get the telly on and I’ll grab dinner. This is the episode where we get to meet the companion Clara, right?”

Molly smiled to herself when she noticed, sitting on the sofa with their plates and their legs touching, that Tom even had the boots.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January & February 2013 -- Interlude 1

At least Mrs Hudson looked happy to see her, relatively speaking. She otherwise looked cold, and tired. There were a few inches of slushy snow on the ground and Molly had ducked into the warmth of Speedy's to wait for a small latte earlier. She nearly turned around and went home after that, but eventually she stuck to her plan and knocked on the door of 221. Mrs Hudson had made a small coo of surprise when she realized who it was and extended the automatic offer of tea.

“The doorbell’s still not working,” Mrs  Hudson said. “He shot it _again_ some month last year but I haven’t gotten it replaced. Some landlady I am,” she laughed softly. “No one rings for upstairs in any case—you know it’s the funniest thing, that brother of his said keep it all there, every last bit of it, and I was just about to donate the science equipment, too. I don’t think I’m a landlady anymore, dear.”

Molly let the pause grow while Mrs Hudson drank her tea. “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with late Christmas presents, Molly. But thank you.”

“I thought you might be with family on Christmas, and I was busy as well, but I thought I might as well, you know? Pop in, see how you were.”

“For old times’ sake?” Mrs Hudson gave her a sleepy smile. “You’re doing better than John.”

Molly was shocked into silence for a second, but she suddenly felt compelled to say, “It was sort of the same, after my Dad died. Mum went really overprotective of me. We both needed someone to talk to, but it was hard to make the effort.”

“I’m sorry about your Dad.” When Mrs Hudson squeezed her hand over the table Molly felt her throat seize up. I was meant to be comforting you, she thought. It had been seven months and Mrs Hudson looked… diminished. Her flat was quiet and still, not even a dripping tap.

She could tell Mrs Hudson that things were going to be alright, that her life would get as close to normal as it could again, just give it time. That’s what everyone had told _her_.

 _He’s alive,_ was what she really wanted to say.

* * *

"Mm, Molls, if you want to dump his arse, you've got to do it before Lunar New Year," Tracy sang. "For good luck, you know."

“Bloody hell, Trace. Why’d you go to all the trouble of setting us up if you wanted to deprive me of something to do on Valentine’s Day?”

“Or some _one_ to do. But if he’s terrible I can’t be to blame.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 2013 -- shopping

Okay. Plain ones weren’t exactly exciting. No to flavoured ones – not that she’d ever tried them but they always _looked_ as if they tasted awful anyway. Molly tipped a box of the ribbed condoms into the shopping basket on her arm.

Damn, they’d probably need lube as well.

Molly wasn’t self-conscious about buying these things, but it had happened once or twice that a relationship ended weeks or even days after she opened her new supplies up. Going through shopping receipts afterward was kind of a downer.

But she’d been seeing Tom for _months_. He was young, energetic—but they’d only gotten serious in January, making effort to spend more time together. Bloody hell, he was handsome though. And like she’d told Tracy, he was nice – completely _lovely_...

That was about when Molly realised she’d been there for ten minutes and a woman was behind her, nonchalantly eyeing up the six-pounds-off-this-week massagers while she waited for Molly to vacate the aisle.

Molly shuffled around, spotting Tom at the other end of the supermarket aisle. “Got the milk you wanted,” he said as he came near. He glanced at the shelves, and then into the corner of Molly’s basket. “Oh, you’ve. Got a box already. Brilliant.” He put the milk in with it and carried on as if he wasn’t suddenly blushing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April 2013 -- hanging out with friends

Molly had a plate of fish and chips in one hand and a burger and salad in the other, winding her way between tables on her way back to their booth in the corner of the pub. Tracy and Tom were right behind her.

Sandy was half-out of her seat before Molly could even set the plates down, picking up three scalding chips and moaning, “Molly, you’re a goddess, I love you,” as she wolfed them down and hissed around the heat.

“Oi, you stole my line,” Tom said, mock-aghast.

Molly laughed. “Love you, too.”

Tom put his plates down and manoeuvred his long limbs around the other side of the booth. “Burger without the chilli, whose is that? Mark?” They shuffled plates around and repositioned slick drinks glasses until all five of them were tucking in.

After a few minutes Molly frowned at Tom’s hand. “If you wanted chips you should have ordered it, oh my god.” She watched her boyfriend steal another one off her plate.

Tom pushed his plate a centimetre closer. “Cherry tomato peace treaty.” At the same time he slid his right arm around Molly’s waist, petting her hip affectionately. His left was still free to take her chips, though.

“Fine.” Molly pulled Tom’s entire plate in front of her. “I’m eating your whole damn burger.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 2013 -- with animal ears

Molly was lying across the full length of Tom’s sofa when he walked up and pushed a pair of white bunny ears into her hair. Her hand reached up to touch the fur, feel the wire headband on her scalp. “Wasn’t Easter, hmm, two months ago?”

Tom lifted Molly’s ankles off the far seat to sit down, placing her socked feet on his lap. “I think it’s been lying in my flat since the last party my friends threw here.” He smiled at her. “You look cute in it. You’re _fluffy_.”

Molly yawned and sat up, twisting her body so she could lean on Tom’s shoulder. The bunny ears flopped against the side of his face and he tried to puff them away while Molly laughed, and shook her head to tickle Tom’s face with the furry tips.

Tom poked the tip of her nose. “Stop being adorable.”

“Well if we’re laying the cards on the table, you could stop— _booping_ my nose.”

“But your face is so soooft,” Tom whined, leaning forward until their foreheads bumped. He scrunched up his nose and it brushed against Molly’s.

She gave him a toothy grin. “I bet we look like a couple of deranged guinea pigs right now.”

“I don’t have any guinea pig costume pieces in the flat,” Tom said gravely.

“Bugger.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 2013 -- wearing kirugumis
> 
> pyjama onesies works better as a term in context

“Oh bloody _hell_. You’ve got to be joking. No. Mark. Amy. _Get out_. Nooo,” Tom’s voice rose until he was all but squeaking, long arms making wild gestures in the direction of the door. “All of you, out of my flat, you wankers!”

Molly rocked back, head bumping into the back of the sofa, howling, “Your face is _reh-eh-ed_!” She and Sandy grabbed each other, tears streaming down their faces. “Oh, this is better than we could have dreamed.”

“You complete tossers!” Tom choked out. He continued staring in horror at the giraffe onesie in his lap, the soft muzzle poking out between shreds of wrapping paper and the spotted sleeves dangling off Tom’s knees. “Whose idea was it to spend money on this—Molly. Please tell me. No.” His eyes slowly widened.

Molly rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. “It was cute, the guys thought it was hilarious, and it came in your _size_!”

Tom backed away from her on the sofa, hissing, “You didn’t.”

The boys started shouting, “You have to try it on! Birthday present rules! We got it for you, mate!”

Tom pulled a despairing hand through his sunny curls. “A fucking giraffe suit? Where would I even wear this?!”

Sandy suddenly looked as serious as ever. She nodded her head at Molly next to her. “Obviously, in bed.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July & August 2013 -- Interlude 2

“Mum, Dad – this is Molly.”

“Hallo.”

Tom’s father shook her hand and smiled through his moustache. His hands were dry and warm, fatherly and familiar in a way that made Molly’s chest tighten. He stepped out of the way for Tom’s mother to greet her, the woman’s slender arms reaching out from underneath a bronze-coloured shawl to clasp Molly’s hand and touch her shoulder.

“Nice to meet you, Molly,” she beamed. She had to tip her chin down slightly to look Molly in the eye; Tom had obviously gotten his height from his mother. “I know the train trip is long, you look a bit run-down. How do you like your tea? Ooh, get your bags inside.”

Tom was ready to usher her into the kitchen with a reassuring arm around her waist. Tom’s father walked behind them, huffing with amusement. “Tom, she’s tiny next to you. Molly’s cute but careful you don’t step on her!"

“Oh my god, Dad—can we not—” Tom started to stutter but Molly had already burst into giggles.

* * *

Molly sat on the train seat two days later, hands folded on her lap and rubbing her ankles together before she got comfortable. She looked Tom dead in the eye and said, “I like your parents.”

Tom had crossed his long legs at the knee and swung his raised foot to tap Molly’s thigh. “Too bad, I hid them away in Wales where you’ll only be able to see them one weekend per summer.”

“I like your Dad,” Molly insisted.

Tom’s teasing expression fell. “Yeah. He and Mum—I’m glad you like them. They like _you_ , you know. They told me.”

Molly’s face shifted into a small, appreciative smile. They’d taken walks together that weekend, seeing the sights and talking over each other, and talked over each other some more at night with the day’s final cups of tea. They spoke, mostly, about Tom’s childhood. Molly had missed out on thirty years of Tom’s life and he’d missed out on thirty-one of hers, and those two days with his parents had given her a lot to absorb. Ten months of dating weren’t much in the scheme of things, were they?

But knowing the embarrassing stories about Tom and his family made Molly feel like she knew her boyfriend a lot better. (Especially the sandwich story from when he was fourteen, _god_.)

“Hey. Come sit on my side before the train makes you sick,” Molly told him. Tom got up shakily and slouched next to her, turning his face towards the side of her head and mumbling a, “ _Love you,_ ” through her hair.

* * *

“The bloke I'm renting my flat from wants to move back in. I need to find need a new place to live. And I was—Molly, I promise you, I was going to—to ask—”

Butterflies rose in her chest. “What?”

“I was going to ask you to move in with me, _soon_ , but... Well, the aforementioned—spanner in the works. Of that plan.”

Molly swallowed. “Would you think about moving in with me?”

* * *

It had not been without its nights of stress, of hair-pulling, of wordless growls at the walls and floor and ceiling. After years of living on her own and looking after only herself and Toby, Molly was very used to having things a certain way and not having someone move the keys without telling her.

They ate dinner early on Monday nights because that was Tom's day off from orchestra. He walked around the kitchen drying dishes in his large hands, looking over his shoulder or leaning against the counter while Molly wiped down the table. They’d bump hips and shove at each other when they passed.

Toby would crawl onto her legs when she lay down with Tom, as if he were supervising this new male in his territory. It had been a while since she'd had this – a boyfriend and a cat and something slowly but unflinchingly approaching domestic bliss.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 2013 -- making out

Tom kissed like a boy catching raindrops on his tongue. Face upturned, sipping at Molly’s lips while she knelt over his legs and leaned them both into the back of the sofa. Molly moved one of his hands to the back of her thigh and the other to the side of her ribcage so his thumb could swipe her breast. She didn’t need a word for him to get the message, to mould her against his chest like the ivory body of Galatea, softening and warming like wax under the ardent sculptor’s fingers.

“I think I found my new favourite thing about living together,” he said in a mumbled blur.

Molly rubbed her thumb over Tom’s cheek, encouraging his eyes to open. He looked up through his curly hair, a dopey mixture of distracted languor and _angelic_ gorgeousness.

“Um, what was the old favourite?” she asked, a nervous laugh hiding in her throat.

“The heating already being on when I get home after work, for sure.” Tom nodded seriously before ducking into the warmth of Molly’s neck, with the clear message of, _New favourite is doing this whenever I want_ , but which ultimately only made Molly jump and shiver before she grabbed his face to tip it back up to her mouth, and did her favourite trick, which was to _bite_.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 2013 -- eating ice cream

Tom was loading coffee-flavoured ice cream into his mouth like his life depended on it. He leaned sullenly against the kitchen counter, white ceramic bowl cradled in his hand. "Molls, I'm probably about to do something _pretty_ stupid. If you could, maybe, be a _darling_ , ignore me and not mention it later."

And he spooned a two inch high pile of ice cream into his mouth.

Molly's jaw dropped slightly at the same time that Tom's eyes bugged out. He dropped his bowl onto the counter with a clatter and spun around, nearly knocking himself out on the edge of the cupboards. He shook his hands and twitched his leg and made an aborted whining noise, while Molly winced and said, rather lamely, "Brain freeze?"

Tom finally swallowed and took a deep breath. "Christ. Why did I do that. Why did you let me do that. Oh my god, I’m an idiot.”

Molly was starting to cop on. She walked over and collected her boyfriend’s discarded bowl. “Bad day?”

Tom made a sound that was not quite a laugh. “Bad audition.”

Molly’s wince deepened. “Oh. Well, um, just have a sit with Toby on the sofa and I’ll be there in a sec.” Molly didn’t go to the sink like she’d planned. Instead, she took another spoon, and refilled the bowl.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 2013 -- genderswapped
> 
> loose interpretation of that prompt

"There?"

Molly squeaked in pain and surprise, muffling it with her folded arms. "Yeah, up there." She huffed into the mattress. "Usually massages go _before_ the sex."

Tom kneaded Molly’s shoulders until her breathing evened out. He turned his head to the side and lay over her, arms boneless by his sides.

“What are you doing?”

“My impression of you. You do this all the time – you’re like a second cat in the house.”

“Am not. Tom, you’re pinching my back.”

“Sorry.” He sat up. “I don’t _mind_ you flopping over me.”

“It’s because I have boobs. They’re comfy.” Molly rolled over and stretched. “I’m feeling better. Ready for bed, I think.”

She dragged Tom down by the neck. “And here’s my impression of you. Mr Elbows. Mr Octopus with Tentacles Locked at Right Angles. Mr—Mr Hope You Can Sleep While in a Headlock, Love!”

Tom choked, trying to turn inside Molly’s arms. “Never complained before...”

“Ever tried getting out of bed when a six-foot-two man’s clinging on like that? And you’re all—pointy!”

Tom sighed and stopped struggling, falling against Molly’s chest. “Hmm. You’re not.” He tapped a finger against Molly’s hipbone thoughtfully. “I reckon I can live with the fact that you think I’m tall and bony and generally awful. I’m not at all disenchanted with your body.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 2013 & January 2014 -- Interlude 3

It was, in many ways, like knowing a missing person. Every day Sherlock spent away made it feel less likely that he was coming back. Some days Molly didn’t think about him until late at night, when she walked around the flat to close the windows and curtains, and a glance into the dark street below reminded her of him. Of the way he used to walk like he owned all of London, like he was looking for one particular lost belonging and no matter how slow or how quick his stride was, he  _would_  find it.

To accompany the consistent thud of sadness in her stomach, the view outside the window would suddenly seem colourless and Molly had to turn away and scull a glass of water and shake the life back into her limbs.

There was an imagined conversation inside her head.  _“It's been more than a year, Sherlock. You said you were going to—you were meant to come home.”_

There was an answering voice, faceless – she wouldn’t start visualising him standing there in the middle of her living room. The Sherlock in her head was a voice on a telephone, his breath sounding grim and heavy. He’d probably tell her something like,  _“I can’t possibly make contact.”_

And Molly wasn't sure that she  _wouldn't_  be creating a risk for him, if she received a single word from him after eighteen months to let her know he was still alive. Maybe a word would be enough to tip her over and launch her screaming against the walls – but she'd been so very  _English_  for those eighteen months, hadn't she, bottling this up? Jolly well getting on with it, scalpel in hand and getting a boyfriend now and losing a few pounds.

The things Molly Hooper wished for Sherlock Holmes were few and simple. Warmth, safety. Somewhere with a bed where he could rest and think about London and its rainy streets. 

* * *

Tom's hugs were always warm. Molly went to him, put her arms under his and pulled him close, waiting for him to warm her up. She shuddered when she pressed her face – nose stinging from the cold she’d just closed the door against – into his chest.

Molly exhaled hard. “I love you. You know I love you, right?” Her jaw trembled with the need to say more, and with the paralysing fear of saying it wrong, or regretting the words. Surely she could spare her future self the remorse if it went wrong, if it blew up in her face, if Tom thought of her differently after—

“You have to know that,” Molly’s mouth said, barrelling on. “I don’t know what's going on. I don't know what I'm doing, and I couldn't explain it if I tried. I love you—” The ‘s’ sound of 'so' faded on her tongue, so she whimpered into Tom’s jacket instead.

Tom, meanwhile, was enfolding her in his arms, tense. "Molly? What's wrong?" he asked nervously. “I can tell—you're all jittery—Molly, sit down, tell me what—”

She squirmed closer. “I'm fine, Tom—”

Tom pulled back to grip one of her shoulders. “Molls, you're acting like something terrible's just happened.” Tom’s forehead was furrowed all over, the lines of his jaw sharpened, brown eyes shining.

“Don't tell me you're fine when I can see you're not,” he said, and there was a look of steel on his countenance which Tom rarely showed.

Molly tried one more embrace. She thought, with her eyes closed against his chest, that she'd tell him _. I'm going to tell him that I used to know Sherlock Holmes._

And the man bending his head over hers – he would try again in a minute to lead her to the sofa, make her tea, listen.

* * *

It was the last day of January when Molly received a little parcel in the mail.

It turned out to be a white ceramic cat in a square of bubble wrap, about as tall as her thumb. The sticker on the box said it was shipped from Hong Kong.

The cat had tiny red ears, its paw raised. An even tinier roll of paper was stuck in the cat's hollow interior and Molly's finger reached into the circle at its bottom, the powdery texture of unglazed porcelain beneath her skin.

Unrolled, the paper said  _Merry Christmas_  in block letters, blue ballpoint, not addressed to anyone. And Molly thought,  _This is late_ , as a tearful smile pulled at her cheeks.

Sherlock must have sent it a week or two before Christmas, in fact. Who knew if he was still in Hong Kong six to eight weeks later? No, of course he had to keep moving. But he must have  _been_ , this package was a marker of some kind, disguised as a relative's gift, not unlike other cat-related knick-knacks she’d been given.

_Here. Alive. Able to mail you decorative cats._

Molly sighed and sagged against the wall. She imagined him now – mentally painting every single inch of his six foot tall body in bright, sunlit shades – alive on Christmas Day, wearing grey slacks and a white button-down, his dark hair blown away from his ears. Hands on a railing, blowing cigarette smoke into the blue-grey sky while he stood on a balcony over the blue-grey water of Kowloon Bay.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 2014 -- in a different clothing style

Tom was used to – if not dressing to the nines – at least looking smart for his performances. He knew he had a... well a sort of baby face, really, and so tried to add an air of mature professionalism with pointed shoes, flattering silhouettes, plus a good coat for the midnight exits from stage-door.

For Molly to find him on Friday afternoon wearing a white t-shirt and jeans that nearly covered his bare toes, viola in hand, wasn’t something that immediately made sense to her.

“Aren’t you meant to be getting ready for work tonight?” Molly pointed out, about to go put away her work gear and keys.

But Tom beckoned, raising his bow with a dashing smirk and that was when Molly realised this was her Valentine’s Day surprise.

She grinned and sat on the other end of the sofa. “Are you playing One Direction? Oh god,” Molly laughed, covering her mouth. “Explains the boy band clothes...”

Tom rolled his eyes, bowing more emphatically as he finished the first chorus. He placed his hand over his heart, looking stricken. “I’ve got to get changed and leave in twenty minutes and you _talk over my viola_?”

Molly rocked forward on her knees and rained kisses on Tom’s face in reply. “Well praise heaven above, light of my life, that was beautiful?”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 2014 -- during their morning rituals

“Tom. Hey. Tom, love, I’m about to leave. There’s a load in the washing machine now, remember to put them in the dryer when it’s done in an hour.”

“Mmnnggh, ten more minutes...”

“No, fifty-eight.”

“S’time?”

“It’s eight-oh-two, Tom. Can you hear me, love?”

“Oh halle-bloody-lujah. Five more minutes.”

“More like two more hours, you lazy horseradish.”

“Five more minuuutes. In. Here.”

“Tom, no, you’ll make me late for work.”

“Pleasshh. In here.”

“No,  _you_ ‘please.’ Let go of my hand, Thomas.”

“Mwoah. Bye...”

* * *

“Knock-knock, Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you done with the shower?”

“Two minutes!”

“Pants on, mate, I need the bathroom, too!”

“Mmnff give me one minute.”

“I’m coming in—”

“I said I was nearly finished don’t scare me like that—! Alright I’m done I’m done—”

“Watch your step.”

* * *

“Molly, where’s that pan?”

“Which one?”

“Black one, shallow, one of the big ones. The fry-uppy one.”

“Back left corner of the cupboard?”

“Nah, that’s the pancakes one.”

“It’s a frying pan; it’ll fry, right?”

“This one has a thinner base, and I need something bigger to fit everything.”

“Just do the tomatoes and mushrooms separately, then.”

“Nnnno, I just need—”

“Tom, you’re the one who did the drying and putting away last night!”

“Never mind, I found it!”

* * *

“I'm going now, home at six. Bye, love.”

“Love you, too—bye.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April 2014 -- spooning

Teenage Molly thought spooning was _the_ most romantic thing possible.

In truth, looming over you was a man whose saliva glands had been doing all manner of things for the last eight hours, and sometimes – when you’ve had some fantastic sex and take your well-deserved rest – your mouth just happened to fall open against the pillowcase. But...

Tom was dying of thirst but his nose and mouth stubbornly sought the gap between Molly’s neck and the pillow, leaving his chin dipped in a messy, childish moue. His arm rested in the dip of Molly’s waist and his wrist with its meandering pulse was pressed just over her nipple, fist curled inward for the warmth against her skin.

She caressed Tom’s knuckles in her semi-consciousness. His other arm was wedged under the pillow, re-emerging in front of Molly’s face, and in the shell of that hand she gave him hers. Tom’s numb fingers curled weakly behind hers, spooning the littlest parts of her.

Molly shifted her hips side-to-side, innocently, stretching her back. Tom nudged her bottom with his legs. He gave a sticky kiss to her rounded cervical bones, exhaled, “I love you,” the same way he had for the last year.

In reply there was a piercing yowl from the foot of the bed. Molly sighed. “Oh Toby, impatient for breakfast?”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 2014 -- doing something together

Tom walked out of the bathroom, breath fresh and face damp, to see Molly refilling Toby’s water bowl. He bent down to pet the cat as it padded by, the new line of sight granting him a few moments to appreciate how Molly’s toes curled against the floor as she darted away to the sink.

Tom let Toby go on his way and just looked. Molly in her summer sleepwear – a pink vest and soft grey shorts, the hems loose below the curve of her bottom. “Can you pass the milk?” she asked without looking up.

Tom got the carton out of the fridge and left it on the counter next to Molly’s flour-filled bowl without a word. He hugged her from behind, hands flat on Molly’s stomach, his chin inadvertently dragging the strap of her vest down her shoulder.

“Every second of hugging buys me a pancake flip,” Molly warned. She broke an egg for the batter, pulling out of Tom’s arms when she reached towards the bin.

“Think we could manage another one around here?” Tom said, looking at the ground.

Molly glanced over her shoulder, caught him looking at Toby. “Another cat?” She sounded confused.

Tom snapped his head up. “No, like... a little one. Another person.”

Molly stared, until she said, carefully, “I think they’re called babies.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 2014 -- in formal wear

Tom practically galloped down the stairs: hair combed, black Oxfords gleaming and smacking on the steps, arm stretched back to pull Molly’s petite body along like a kite.

On the train to Covent Garden he kept smoothing down his tie and rubbing his hands over the pockets of his jacket. Molly was wearing things she hardly ever had reason to: a blazer over her dress, silver teardrop earrings, her brown hair pinned and clipped high on her head. She’d applied red lipstick and pink gloss slowly, letting her breathing slow. She hadn’t wanted to shake; there was nothing to panic about.

Tom deliberately walked them past the Royal Opera House’s pale façade and squeezed Molly's hand. “I’m going to play there someday soon,” he told her.

The restaurant was decorated in velvet and glass and Tom silently ate up his courage, set the wine bottle down after pouring her some and, _sotto voce_ , asked, “Molly Hooper, would you like to become Molly Hooper Morrison?”

He lifted away one side of his jacket and dislodged his tie from its pin with his arm but he got the box out of his inside pocket and showed it to her. “Or stay Molly Hooper, that’s fine, my Mum did that—”

“Yes?”

Even after that word escaped Molly felt like she was going to burst.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July & August 2013 -- Interlude 4

Molly’s mouth opened to say, “Yeah, of course; I’ve moved on now,” before she realised, looking into Sandy's ecstatic face, that that hadn't been what she’d been about to ask about at all.

Sandy grabbed her left hand and pulled it to her nose, mouth cavernous and tilted at the ceiling: “HO-LY motherflipping baby mama _praise be to the physics that made this shit-tastic sweet rock_! Amen!” She threw Molly’s hand down, grinning. “ _Shit_ , man.”

Tom covered his blushing face with a palm. “Guys, please.”

Sandy turned suddenly to Mark and whacked him on the arm. “Why haven’t you gotten your act together like Tom?”

Mark squirmed away and swatted back at her. Perched primly on the edge of the seat, he shook his head at Tom. “Nah, really, mate, congrats. Keep him on the straight and narrow, won’t you, Molly?”

“Suppose I’ll have to. You lot weren’t doing a good job of it when I found him,” she said slyly. “I _heard_ what you did on his birthday before last...”

Tracy tipped her chin up. “ _Scusa me_ , if anyone’s keeping anyone on the straight and narrow it’s me. And frankly I’m insulted no one’s bought me a drink yet, being the one who introduced these two birds.”

As she finished saying that, a young man in glasses found their table by the wall of the pub, putting a hand on the back of Tracy’s chair and saying, “Got your texts, sorry I’m late. What’d I miss?”

Sandy grabbed Molly’s left hand again and waved it in the air. “STEPHEN, look!”

* * *

Tracy stood with Molly at the bar, waiting for their glasses to be refilled. Molly sneaked a sidelong glance at Tracy’s eyes, the pupils wide and dark and focused unnervingly on her.

“Forget what I said earlier, about setting you two up, forget that for a moment.” Tracy tapped the bar once with a firm finger. “Do you think getting married now is too soon, yes or no?”

“We’re only engaged. Who knows when we’ll find a wedding date. We’ve been living together for nearly a year. This is just... extra commitment.” Molly looked over her shoulder. “Trace, you introduced me to some friends you’d just made and two years later we’re _close_ with them. And I finally, fucking _finally_ made it work with a man and you get to claim the ‘how we met’ story, don’t you?”

“Oh Molls, you know I want the world for you. I kept second-guessing Tom because I was making sure he was living up to the standards I’d set when I got you that first date, yeah?”

Tracy started drawing figure-eights with her fingernail and spoke softly, just so the two of them could hear. “Remember when you took compassionate leave, two years ago? Was it July? Wow, it was two years, exactly. You’d just started sobbing in the middle of work, I mean screaming and crying. You scared the shit out of me, Molly. You were holding your chest as if something had just been ripped out; I thought you’d burned yourself or cut yourself on some glass, or that you were having a complete—” She pinched her lips closed. “I knew you really cared about that man. I told you that you should have talked to someone about what happened.”

“And then I met Tom,” Molly said simply.

* * *

Three years ago Molly would have gone running into the lab at St Bart’s, dragging the weight of the ring behind her the same way she’d dragged in Jim Moriarty. She’d have stood on the other side of Sherlock’s table and pursed her lips until they were tender and pink, arranged her loose hair over one shoulder, using her left hand to twist the fine strands. Waiting for him to notice the engagement ring.

Now she just wished she could look Sherlock in the face and tell him, and it wouldn't even matter what he _said_ (Molly you’ve put on four pounds is your fiancé very fond of pasta well I can’t fault you I suppose you need lots of carbohydrates for all the sexual intercourse you’ll be having in the lead-up to the wedding though try not to let him jump to the conclusion that registering for china turns you on) and then she could just go on watching him work in that lab, perking her head up in between her own tasks for the day.

Because despite the winces from Tracy whenever she said, “You know, Sherlock Holmes was in today,” work was _good_ , it was nice and quiet, and it was something she and Sherlock at least had in _common_ back then. When he was silent and beautiful, surrounded by glass and colour, and Molly could watch him with a little smile on her face and pretend that they were friends and that she would see him the next day. Like work friends do.

* * *

“I’ve moved on,” she told Tracy, and carried the drinks back to their table.

Tom’s face lit up just to see her approach. He put his arm around her waist when she sat. Something twinged behind Molly’s sternum, but she grit her teeth and tried to tune into the conversation – still about the engagement – just as Sandy pinched her nose and groaned: “Oh lord, they're gonna shag like bunnies.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 2014 -- dancing
> 
> holy reference to someone else's big Sherlolly fanfic, Batman

One night Tom put a Sinatra song on full volume, pulling Molly up from her chair, holding her hands in front of the coffee table.

“You know we’re listening to the voice of a dead man? Quite probably the band members are dead, too.”

“Tom, just because I cut up stiffs for a living—”

He shushed her but his hands were full so he ended up darting forward and pecking Molly’s lips in reprimand. “But it’s still such a nice song, isn’t it? You are all I long for...”

 _All I worship, and adore_ , Frank crooned around them like dark molasses. The brass was bright in Molly’s ears, the breath of a nameless musician.

_Hold my hand..._

Molly leaned forwards as Tom rocked them on their feet. “What’s all this?”

“I’m thinking about what I want to be listening to when I have my first dance with my wife. Something that reminds me of the first time I saw you when we met two years ago.”

Had it only been two?

“You’re being... very romantic,” Molly breathed against his cheek.

“I don’t do this for everyone,” Tom whispered back. It made Molly chuckle and he felt her hand jump in his.

She looked past Tom’s shoulder for a long while. Eventually she muttered, “I’ll want _Two of Us_ , by the Beatles.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 2014 -- cooking/baking

The smell gave Molly the urge to curl herself around the figure standing in the kitchen and just inhale. Hunger roiled in her stomach; the beef smelled amazing, the mushrooms looked divine. Tom was too tall for her to put her chin on his shoulder but she peeked past his arm at the pan full of oily juices. “Oh my god.”

“Hands on your side of the kitchen,” Tom chided.

“But I finished! There’s nothing to do once it’s in the fridge.” A frown appeared on Molly’s face and she hugged her arms tighter around Tom’s hips. He flipped a piece of beef over and snipped off a corner to check how it was done.

“Oh god, Tom,” Molly moaned. “Give me that piece. Please?” She handed him a fork before she even finished speaking. “I let you lick the meringue off the beaters!” she reminded him.

Tom stabbed the piece of beef and aimed it over his shoulder at Molly’s mouth. She chewed and her eyes rolled back in her head – it was _gorgeous_. “More.”

Tom sighed and turned, reaching for Molly’s hips. He swivelled her around and bent to push her on the bum. Molly yelped and dug in her feet. “You can have some more after you wash the potatoes and put them in the oven to bake.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 2014 -- in battle, side-by-side

“Fancy some chips?”

In another universe, she wouldn’t have hesitated. Because _chips_ —now, chips, chips were amazing and—and awful—no good for your heart—but by god, Molly Hooper was starving. It was barely four in the afternoon but she could have just _murdered_ a bag of hot, crinkle-cut chips by now.

Sherlock had texted that morning. She hadn’t hesitated then.

They would have bundled up in their respective scarves and dipped their fingers into the box while Sherlock held it in his big gloved hand, wrist resting on his thigh. His other hand would be bare below the cuff of his coat, popping chips into his mouth.

In another universe he wouldn’t have looked at her like—like _that_ , and he wouldn’t have kissed her cheek goodbye, and she’d have said, “Yes I can, I can do this again,” and when they were down to the last three cold chips he might have leaned over and said, “Thank you again. You know, when you. My life being... preserved. A long time ago, I know.”

In another universe Mary Morstan would have run up the stairs to an empty flat, she and Sherlock would never have thought together, fought against the flames together, and because _Molly Hooper wanted to get chips_ everything would have been over before it'd even begun.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 2014 -- arguing

Tom had folded his arms tight, gripping his elbows and glancing at his feet while pacing aimlessly behind the sofa.

“Great,” he said. “You're not talking. You know, I can't _fix_ this if you won't even talk to me.”

Molly’s gut tightened and she clicked her tongue. She didn’t look up from her book. “What if I don't want to, hmm? What if I don't want to talk to you right now? Because I am really, _really_ not in the mood, Tom.”

“Well I can’t _do_ anything about it until you tell me what I did wrong. I just want to know _what_ , Molly.” He stopped pacing in front of where she was sitting. “What in the bloody hell did I fuck up _so_ badly—”

Molly’s hands instantly clenched until the book cover creaked between her knuckles. “I. Am not. _Talking_. Right now.”

“Give me one good reason—”

Molly’s head snapped up and her raised hand was stiff in front of her, palm out to stop Tom in his tracks. “You say such _selfish_ things sometimes.”

But he didn't need to say anything – his forehead and brows creased under his curly fringe and she knew exactly what he was thinking.

After the door was slammed and locked from the outside with his own key, Molly hissed through her teeth, “Oh, bastard.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 2015 -- making up afterwards

There was ice on the window and snow on the street. Molly scissored her legs and tucked her toes under her hot water bottle and screwed up her eyes, trying to fall asleep. Tom crawled in behind her. Warm. Very, very quiet. A boy’s voice. A hand touching her arm shyly.

“We’ll do better this year, won’t we?” He lifted the blanket and kissed her shoulder, her neck, her cheek. Pressed his face against her yielding flesh, rubbed his lips over her skin.

“Too tired,” Molly complained without opening her eyes.

“I just want to hold you.”

As haltingly as he often spoke, Tom craved hearing Molly’s replies. It was Molly who chattered throughout the day – she would say that she loved him and he would nod and kiss her, and pull back and wait and look at her. And when Molly said it again, word for word, he would drop down and kiss her a second time and sometimes forget to move things along, Molly’s mouth was just so soft and pleasant.

“You know I’m sorry.”

“Mm.”

“And you know I love you, right.”

“Mm. Yes, Tom.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“Go to sleep, Tom.”

Tom covered her body with his long arms which Molly teased, buried his angular chin which she complained about in her hair, and kept kissing her blindly.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February & March 2015 -- Interlude 5

Tom bent his head over Molly’s with half-words in his eyes, the almost-words, the ones he couldn’t be bothered giving stuttering voice to when he could just kiss her. They’d reached the point in their relationship – this engagement – where saying things aloud wasn’t all necessary.

Except, “Snap your hair tie.”

Molly had untied her ponytail and left the hair tie on her right wrist. She pulled it off and stretched it across Tom’s backside with two fingers, before stretching the elastic above his skin a tiny bit and snapping it against his skin.

Tom's hips kicked forward. “Jesus Christ!” he yelped. His head fell down to Molly's neck with a giggle. “Yikes. Again.”

Molly ran her palms over his skin, a small stripe of warmth underneath her palm. Having a tall and thin fiancé, well, she could have asked for one with a more cushiony arse but Tom's had grown on her, she supposed. Cute and compact in her hands and all hers to play with.

She snapped her hair tie again.

“Okay, nope, maybe not again,” Tom turned his head and huffed into her ear.

"Then you'd better think of something new. We're too young to have boring married couple sex."

"You told me not to buy flowers for Valentine's. All you sent me to get was a new box of condoms. Doesn't say ‘I love you’ as eloquently, in my opinion."

Molly squeezed Tom’s arse more firmly and bent her knees, bucking her hips up so he’d give her a bit of room. "Then stop mucking about and go back to _making love_ to me or whatever you call it."

Tom rolled his eyes but he rose back onto his elbows and kissed her hard.

* * *

Molly looked up at the sound of the door swinging open and turned around on her lab chair. “Hello! What can I do for you today, Inspector?”

Lestrade had his hands in his pockets and a grin that showed his front teeth. “You're in a chipper mood.”

Not appropriate to say ‘The morning sex today was pretty fantastic,’ so soon in the conversation, was it?

Thankfully Lestrade, in his gruff but friendly voice, followed up immediately with, “How's the boyfriend? Sorry, fiancé. Got wedding planning on the brain yet?”

Molly blushed. “Not until John and Mary's is over. Tom's fine, by the way, thanks. Haha,” she tapped the folder on the table by her elbow, “on the brain. This report is for Sherlock. Blow to the back of the skull. Safe to say her brain was a bit worse for wear by the time she came into the morgue.”

Lestrade gave a sympathetic half-wince, half-smile at her.

Molly cleared her throat and changed the subject quickly. “So, Greg. Anyone special for you to bring to the wedding?”

He sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Not me, not for a long while. Same old, same old.”

Molly wasn't fazed. “Need some help? Because Alice – she teaches dentistry here at Bart's – she's about your age. Her husband ‘caught the natural causes,’ as we say around here.” She winked.

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't think so—it's nice of you to offer but—at the moment—I don't think I'd make a good—”

“S'alright,” Molly smiled calmly. “No need to rush, you know.”

“Anyway. I'm here for a second opinion on a scene, quite a specialist thing. Know anyone who could help me with that?”

* * *

“No toxins in the body, mostly undigested food in the stomach. Cause of death is haemorrhaging from a single blow to the head.”

“Either her killer is significantly taller to be able to swing a weapon and apply that much force, or the blow came from above. And the weapon had to be heavy, probably metal, from the amount of cranial damage. Something like... Hmm.” Sherlock straightened and stepped back.

Molly looked over at him, hands braced on the table. “What?”

“Something like the door of a car boot.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April 2015 -- gazing into each others' eyes

Molly remembered standing by some stairs in November, breathing hard, her heart like a relentlessly swinging pendulum in the motionless case of her chest. Waiting for the stillness to break and crack open, because Sherlock had never looked at her so _long_ , had never—not like _that_. At Christmas three years earlier he’d barely looked at her face before he kissed it.

The idea came suddenly. “Jokes aside, Sherlock. Four hundred and forty-three millilitres aside...”

“Point seven.”

“... Point seven. You wanted practical experience. Come to the pub with me.” She smiled brightly.

Sherlock’s mouth parted. She could hear the breath crackling in his half-closed throat. “Would this be... dinner?”

It was Molly’s turn to scramble for words; god, she should’ve known it’d sound like one of her old come on’s.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered while Molly opened hers wider, standing up straighter under his stare. “Tom and I usually go on Saturday afternoons, but you can pick a day, and we can—we can go. Have a drink.”

Sherlock gave a miniscule nod. “Ah, so I’d be joining you and your fiancé. Trial run before I went with John.”

His gaze was dropping slightly lower, away from her face, and Molly felt the words rush out. “Tom plays viola for a living. You might find something to talk about. Types of bows?”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 2015 -- getting married

“You look sharp in blue,” Molly smiled, running a hand over Tom’s elbow while gazing dreamily at the busily decorated wall.

“That comment was rather... out of the _blue_.”

He held his breath until Molly muttered, “That was terrible, Tom.”

“You still love me.”

“Give me a kiss,” Molly demanded. She turned up her face and Tom felt fond laughter flutter in his chest. He almost cupped her impish, made-up face in his hands before remembering the champagne flute between his fingers.

Molly rose on tiptoes and pecked her fiancé’s neck. Twice. Thrice. Then – ah – contact with that soft, warm cheek.

“There are fifty people watching us,” Tom hissed.

“No they’re not,” Molly snapped at the bottom of his jaw.

“Time and place to get frisky, your friends’ wedding probably not it?”

Molly wrenched at his jacket lapels. Tom hunched down, “I’m counting the hours,” a husky whisper in his ear.

“Oh, photo!” Tom cried suddenly over her shoulder.

He looked handsome and she looked elated, but her hands were still warping his lapels.

Tom straightened up. “That could've made a very different photo.”

Molly shrugged, surveying the room again. “Do you think Sherlock looks a bit peaky? I’ll go talk to him. Maybe Lestrade will take his palm cards if I ask.”

“Oh Molls, it can’t turn out _that_ bad.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 2015 -- on one of their birthdays

Tom spent his birthday in Germany.

Molly went to work, bought a pastry for her lunch, and took the bus home. She gave Toby food and water and cleaned his tray and finally picked his heavy, furry body up and carried him onto the balcony for some fresh air.

“Look, Toby.” She pointed at the sun and told him it was still up, then rubbed her hands over his back and joked that he’d better enjoy the warmth while he could. Toby’s eyes slitted almost closed as he stayed still in her arms, sunlight tinting the white patches on his face amber yellow.

The sky went dark. Molly tucked her phone between her ear and the back of the sofa as she lay across it, lifting a slice of pizza from the coffee table with her other hand.

Tom’s voice was light, dancing over the line. “Hello?”

“Happy birthday!” Molly smiled weakly at the ceiling. “Doing anything special?”

“About to find some dinner, actually. What are you having?”

“Pizza,” she grinned, licking her thumb.

“You _tease_.”

“I’ll call back later; you have a birthday schnitzel on me. Oh, Tom, one thing—Wait, never mind, it’ll keep. Tell you when you get home.”

Tom smiled at no one as he passed through the hotel lobby. “Yeah, I can’t wait to get back.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July & August 2015 -- Interlude 6

Sandy made a jug of ice tea and poured two glasses. Molly was pinned by the anxiety in Sandy’s brown eyes when she asked, “Was there someone else?”

“No, of course not. Neither of us—no.”

“That’s good. Relatively speaking.” Sandy bit her lip.

Molly didn’t reach for her tea. The glass looked too cold to touch.

A days-old vacuum had opened in the left side of Molly’s chest, draining, sucking – it was illogical because all the heart does is pump blood, but all her life she couldn’t deny that was where the pain _was_. Molly had looked at the soil of her Dad’s grave and at Sherlock Holmes’s undated headstone and the greedy vacuum behind her heart had been _gasping_.

“I did love him,” Molly sighed, the words sad strangers in her own ears. “I can’t believe I stopped, but then it was so hard to start again, Sandy—I don’t understand why it was so sudden, I don’t—”

Sandy’s hands lifted hers from the table before Molly pulled them towards her chest. There was a voice in her head, sounding younger than she really was, whimpering, _I want my fiancé_.

Shushed away by Sandy’s breaths. Molly drank the cold tea.

“Let’s turn pub night into a girls’ night. See movies, go clubbing. Liz knows all the good places. You should _see_ me on a dance floor, Molls.” Sandy rolled her neck and winked, eyes sparkling like nothing Molly had seen in weeks.

* * *

Yes, this was her doing. But wasn’t she allowed to be heartbroken about the fact that all his  _things_ had left in cardboard boxes and there would be no one in the kitchen—in the bathroom—in bed and the flat was just  _hers_ again? How could she possibly, possibly be happy about that fact that her longest relationship had ended and she wouldn’t be getting married after all.

* * *

Molly went to work. Bone saw in hand. Wrist-deep in ribcages, palpating diseased heart muscles. The black hole in her chest shrank.

* * *

Sherlock’s response came in the acerbic mode he'd mastered years ago.  _“Sorry_ your  _engagement’s_ over.”

She nearly screeched. Nearly closed her eyes and stepped away. Nearly slapped him again for the words like poison poured in her ear.

“Stop it. Just, stop it.”

* * *

_“Sherlock’s in hospital.”_

When Molly found out she screamed aloud – confusion, shock, disbelief. She got into her car, willing herself not to shake apart, sewing her straining lungs together with thoughts of seeing him alive. She swore and wrenched the steering wheel, knowing it was happening all over again – over and over, and over men she was so _angry_ with – her heart was breaking.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 2015 -- doing something ridiculous
> 
> (Molly has been taking a lot more night shifts recently. It's so she doesn't miss visiting hours at Sherlock's hospital during the day.)

Molly turned on her bedroom light. Shit.

“Sherlock, it’s five in the morning,” she moaned.

Sherlock faced her bedside clock. “Already?”

Molly pressed three fingertips to each eye. Opened them. Sherlock, still there, reclining on her bed on a stack of thick cushions, palms together under his chin. “You’re meant to be in hospital!”

“Discharged today,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Were not. I’d know. Because I share shifts with John to sit at your bedside making sure you don’t climb out the window. And I talk to your doctor, damn it. You weren’t discharged at three a.m. today, Sherlock!” Molly hiccupped, a little hysterical. “I didn’t do everything for you to go into cardiac arrest again, you _stupid_ man.”

“Stupid?”

Molly’s voice went deadpan. “Why are you in my bedroom again?”

“Thinking. You bring any morphine home?”

“No!”

“Didn’t think so. _Your_ patients never need it.”

“Don’t joke, Sherlock. Are you in pain?”

“Five out of ten, manageable.”

Molly stalked forward and yanked her pillow from behind Sherlock’s head. “That’s what happens when you traipse around London, breaking into people’s flats—getting _shot_ —why would you do that?!”

She swung the pillow into his head, hearing a satisfying _thump_ of fabric.

“Molly, stop, you’re being—hey, _I’m wounded_!”

“No shit, Sherlock! Bullet wounds—” _thwack_ “fucking hurt—” _thwump_ “like bitches!”


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 2015 -- doing something sweet

The kettle clicked off. Molly poured the steaming water into two mugs and leaned her elbows on the counter, stirring two teaspoons of brown sugar into each. She took a few steps out of her kitchen with the tea in her hands before she stopped in her tracks, and yawned hugely.

Molly sighed to herself. She had changed back to daytime shifts at St Bart’s but her body clock was still hankering for afternoon naps. Still the vacuuming to do and dinner to fix – but god, an afternoon nap sounded so good right then.

“Sherlock, tea?” She rounded the sofa and paused.

The detective was on his back, neck stretched over the armrest of the sofa, mouth forced slightly open. Each breath that passed his pink lips was deeper and more audible than if he’d been awake. Molly stood listening – at a loss – in a trance.

Until Toby wandered close and, having seen a vacant pair of legs on the sofa, bent as if to jump.

Molly put the mugs down and stretched out her hand. “No, Toby, please, get away. Stay...” She got him to saunter towards her bent knees instead and ruffled his fur warmly.

Glancing one last time at the sleeping man on her sofa she led Toby away with her. “There’s a good boy, there’s my boy...”


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 2015 -- doing something hot

“Sherlock? What are you doing?”

He was sitting on the solid corner of her bathtub, one foot tucked underneath his thigh. He hadn’t dressed above his pyjama bottoms. “Not feeling well.”

Molly stepped inside, touched Sherlock’s forehead. “Warm in here, anyway,” Sherlock mumbled with a brief smile. He gestured to the edge of the bathtub.

Molly sat, Sherlock’s knee nudging her hip, his shoulders pale under the white light-bulb. Almost reminiscent of St Bart’s, but instead of sterile smells and clinical spaciousness they were cocooned in the scent of mango bath gel and warm, dissipating steam.

Sherlock’s voice floated towards the ceiling alongside it. “The scar will be white. Could have been worse. I always channelled my vanity elsewhere.”

Molly swallowed. Gaze skittering over the healing wound between his pectorals, damp chest hair, the rolls in his abdomen as he slouched against the wall.

“I look worse on the other side. Serbia – awful. More fun in Hong Kong,” Sherlock said. Molly looked up with a little gasp and he winked.

Molly was suddenly biting her lip. Sob fading in her ears. Hand on Sherlock’s chest, skimming over his dark nipple that was pebbling from the cold creeping in. Molly bit her lip even harder as she reached for the heartbeats coming from that warm, alive, imperfect chest expanding with each breath.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 2015 & January 2016 -- Interlude 7

He leaned forward and bent his head to the side – just slightly, just enough – to kiss her cheek. Dry, soft, the same way he’d always done it before. As if he didn’t know how to kiss her any differently.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” Molly said under her breath, raising her eyes to his.

“You looked sad. And you still sound sad.” Sherlock gently pulled free a lock of hair that’d been lying inside Molly’s shirt collar, fingertips grazing her neck. Molly’s breath caught, suddenly flushed, electrified.

“I’ll be away from London over the holidays.” Sherlock tugged his gloves on. “Thank you for lunch. Have a happy new year, Molly Hooper.”

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but instead did something she hadn’t in months, not since she’d last felt Tom’s lips under hers. She rose onto the balls of her feet and kissed Sherlock Holmes’ face, bravely – wickedly – stupidly catching the corner of his mouth before it parted in surprise.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” she said clumsily, leaving the table with the empty box of chips and lamb kebab wrappers even before he did.

* * *

When that deep voice sneaked out of her computer, Molly’s throat burned, went cold and painful, and finally numb. Tears stung her eyes like pins.

“Oh, god,” Molly breathed. “You couldn’t have just stayed _dead and buried_?!”


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The East Wind blows.

_“You have reached the voicemail of Thomas Frederick Morrison. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible, please leave a message after the beep noise thingy.”_

“Fuck thaaat shit! Listen, Tommy. Babe, we’ve got to talk. You know, the Taaalk.

“You know we never really _had_ the proper break-up talk. There was all that Sherlock Holmes shit. I didn’t get to talk to anyone before I left, really.

“But Tom, look at you, baby boy! You’ve gotten the teensiest bit interesting! We should catch up. You should introduce me to your new friends. You know, go out for drinks, have a good, old... heart... to heart. Hey, I mean. I missed so much stuuuff. I heard you popped the question?!

“She’s _darling_ , isn’t she?

“Oh, Tommy. You’ve been such a _good_ boy while Daddy was gone. Your two shoes are so goody the Pope would wear ’em!

“... That wasn’t what I told you to do.

“I’m shocked, honestly I am. _Straight_ and _narrow_. Mummy Moran’s gonna have to deal with that. A lot of projects went down the drain a few years back but was that an invitation to join an _orchestra_?

“Actually, never mind, not like I care.

“Anyway. Don’t call me, I’ll call _you_. And Tom – don’t worry about that Molly Hooper girl. She’s no stranger to betrayal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate ending/sequel follows. He's no Sherlock Holmes, but do you believe in Tom?


End file.
